Wasteland Gods
by Yellow Wedge
Summary: Into the blasted purgatory of the post-war United States come Demons. But what is their purpose there? Why now, after the war devastated Earth? Are they even on the side of humankind, or are they there to finish it, once and for-all?


**Prologue – The Awoken **

The horns sounded, and great, jubilant roars passed between rotting teeth and pulped gums. The Raiders were in. The vast gate which protected the Vault had been torn apart by the crude explosive charge they had rigged. They poured inside, wielding clubs and swords, or scavenged pistols.

The man that had guided them there padded across the threshold, too. He wore a suit of pristine white; spotless even after the long journey. Smarter men than they might have found issue with this stranger: a man whom would neither reveal his name, nor what cut of the profits he desired. If these warriors of the atomic wasteland had stopped for a moment to consider his behaviour, they might realise that none recalled seeing him sleep, eat or even show any facial expression besides the wide, shark-mouthed grin which he wore now.

But they did not consider these things. Truth was, the raid was a break they needed. Morale was low after an unfortunate run-in with the Brotherhood of Steel, far to the south, and a little slaughter and pillaging would help to boost it. Some smiled or even salivated at the memory of another Vault they had found and raided the previous year. Chasing its screaming residents through narrow, brightly-lit corridors, or emerging with armfuls of well-maintained tech. Such treasure-troves were becoming rarer and rarer, and if any of the filthy, tribal creatures that might once have passed for people had believed in a higher power, they might have been thanking it then.

...yet there was something wrong with this place. No bulky doors barred their way, no lights flickered on at their passing. There were candles, though. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Most were just unlit, melted stumps, but they were clustered on every single surface available, as well as lining the floor. Every few metres, however, there would be one: a little star dancing a waltz ahead of them, guiding them through the darkness. Their pounding sprint slowed to a walk, and they huddled together, single-file. There was no maze of security checkpoints, apartments and common-rooms; nothing but the long, corridor, and the occasional stairwell.

The air grew colder, the further they descended, and the distance between candles became further and further, until they finally came to a door. It was stone, not metal, and etched into it were a number of strange images. Some were obviously of religious origin, while others were more obscure. The only light in the immediate vicinity was a shimmering green control button set into the doorframe. The lead Raider heard an audible clinking and rustling, as his companions readied their weapons. He, himself, carried a fine old Smith & Wesson revolver. When he'd pulled it from the skeletal hand of its former owner, the body had disintegrated: crumbling to ashes which the wind snatched away. He hoped that it would serve him better than the poor bastard he'd taken it from.

The man in the suit coughed, politely, from the rear of the group, and the Raider found his hand resting on the button. He pressed it, then shuffled back and raised his gun.

The door slid noiselessly into the ground, and they peered into the space beyond to see...

...candles. Hundreds, every single one of them lit. The entire room shimmered with a hellish orange hue. The man in white must have urged them on, because the group began to move, those at the back pushing the others forward. They fanned out, stepping around the candles. There was something awful about this place: something which urged them to take great care when moving within it, as though each candle were a sentient entity, watching them with a malice which frightened even the most hardened amongst them. The man in white entered the room and, as-though on cue, the door slid back into place once more. The green light on the inside control panel snapped off, replaced by a red one. They were locked inside.

Nobody dared cross this man, but their eyes followed him as he strode down the aisle towards the far-end of the room. This had been a cafeteria once, they realised: dusty, rotting frames of tables and benches were piled-up, behind a make-shift altar. It, like the door, was inscribed with a strange mix of religious and pagan symbols, and it marked the end of the candle-sea. Behind it, the great room stretched on into darkness. The stranger approached the altar, circled it, and then stood behind it like a priest of old, preparing to give his sermon. He did not speak, though, merely reached inside his jacket, as one might reach for a pistol in a shoulder-holster. The Raiders had seen enough. Those with guns raised them, and there was an audible racking of slides as they were loaded.

From the folds of his suit, the man produced a candle: lavender coloured and apparently newly-made. It fit perfectly into the little slot atop the altar. He dug into his pocket and produced a little book of matches, embossed with a golden logo too small to make out, struck one, and then lit the candle. Finally, the Raider chief spoke-up:

"D'ya mind telling us what in the hell is goin' on?"

The stranger turned away, to face the black void.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you!"

The Raider pointed his revolver directly at the man and clicked back the hammer, but to no avail. If he felt fear, then he surely did not show it.

"Arise, Lord, for I would speak with you..." he murmured.

"...the fuck?"

"I know, Lord, it can be difficult to wake after so long, but I have returned..."

What followed was the most haunting sound that any of them had ever heard. It was a voice; a reply from the shadows, though the exact point from which it emanated could not be pinpointed. Not just one voice, though, multiple voices, speaking slightly out-of-kilter. There were at least six of them, mostly male, or androgynous, with an accent that appeared to fluctuate between Bible-Belt American to high-class 'Victorian' British.

"_Caleb... you know better than to disturb me. After summoning, I must rest, I have told you..."_

The raiders shrunk back, not quite panicking (likely because their limbs appeared to have locked-up, preventing sudden movement).

"_...besides... I hunger..."_

"Excellent, my lord. For you see, I have brought you this offering."

Caleb swept his hand in the direction of the assembled raiding-party. Each and every man amongst the group felt a sudden chill, as though a piercing gaze they could not see was passing over them. That was enough for at least one Raider. The idea that some great, malevolent entity was regarding him caused him to soil himself, turn and flee. When he realised that the door had been sealed, he sunk to the ground, sobbing and beating his fists against it. Somebody hissed at him to shut up, but it was too late. The thing lurking in the darkness was watching them now.

"_Excellent. Now then, my most loyal friend. If you would allow me past. I have not tasted the mortal plane for a thousand years, and I would feed."_

Caleb did not speak in reply. Instead he simply lent towards the candle before him and blew it out. Simultaneously, a great wind swept through the room, extinguishing every single flame. On its heels came the shadow, rushing forwards to consume the rapidly-shrinking area of light. A few of the men managed to scream before it reached them. The chief even managed to loose a single shot from his prized revolver. It echoed around the suddenly-empty room like a knell in a churchyard.

_**BOOM.**_

_Boom._

_boom._


End file.
